Warcrafting
by Fruitiest of Mallards
Summary: Glimpses into a world made up of various things: crafts, arts, lives, and legacies...but most of all, war.
1. Proof

_This is a series of short-stories set in the world of 'WoW,' in case you couldn't tell from the summary. Most of them will be based off of canon lore or be centered around characters I play, or others' characters whom I have been given permission to write for. Enjoy and please review. If I get anything wrong lore-wise, do tell me (kindly). I want to be as accurate as possible, especially if I'm going to be squeezing my own original people into that world._

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Strangely, the clouds were not moving.

The young worgen blinked, repeatedly, as she realized this. The clouds were dark and ominous, and an instinctual sense deep within her told her that they should be traveling in whatever direction in rushes of wind and perhaps rain, but, they were not. They stood still, as if someone had painted them with such detail and vision it was enough to trick even the wisest eyes.

She blinked again and glanced about just to remind herself of her grip on reality. It was as she did this it hit her. She was dreaming.

She woke.

She was not much of one for dream interpretations, however, she couldn't help but wonder what that dream could have possibly meant. Was it a nightmare? Was she losing her mind?

"'Sis," said a voice. "Heb'!"

She sat up in bed. "Whaaat," she hated how her voice rasped. It was something she would have to deal with. Her brother, Paddarick, had learned how to shapeshift from worgen to human and back with seeming ease. She, Hebellina, was another story. They were the Tebbin siblings. Once upon a simpler time, they were the notorious child duo of Tempest's Reach, always up to no good in the eyes of adults. Now they were little more than domesticated animals on two legs, sometimes four. Hebellina found that darkly humorous. She had always aspired to be a hunter, a master of beasts. The first creature she ever tamed? Herself.

Her eyes were crusty and heavy. She felt sore. How she had grown to hate her life in such a short time.

Well, she had a purebred mastiff. Ranaldo, loyal and true. She didn't count him as a beast, never had, though she'd been told by the local lead hunter that he was technically a hunting companion. Hadn't she practiced shooting deer as a youthful girl with Ranaldo in tow? She had raised him from a pup and it was a wonder to her that he had relearned how to recognize her in worgen form. Her scent must be so different. Never doubt a dog...

"'Tis morn," Paddarick said quickly. Hebellina swung her legs to the side of the bed. It was a cot, more like, and it was greatly uncomfortable. She couldn't find it in her to complain the night previous, she was too exhausted then, from all of the work. Being not entirely human any longer, she and her sibling had had to perform many tasks the past few weeks for numerous individuals and endure a certain brand of scorn from half of them, to prove their humanity. The entire time with the threat of Gilnean culture being annihilated by the Forsaken hanging over their heads...

Hebellina, as always, brushed away the unwanted thoughts by thinking of a topic more humorous. It was a morbid humor, as it should be in times like these. She found it slightly saddening that the only man to have ever entered her sleeping quarters in her life was her brother. She suspected any sane man would rather run in fear than court her after all which had happened. She snarked, "No, it's dusk."

"Enough of that! No time for banter," Paddarick cut her off quickly. "The elvish ships are here."

Hebellina froze. She'd thought they'd never arrive. Drowning that thought—it wasn't proper gratitude—she got to her clawed feet and straightened. "Forgive me for wastin' time," her brother nodded. They knew each-other better than anyone else in the worlds, and the mutual agreement went unspoken. They'd both do their absolute best, from thereon. In a new land. They were worgen, yes, but in the end they were primarily human.

Hebellina merely hoped that the elves would not stare as blatantly as the whole of Gilneas did.


	2. Frenzied

The hound knew little aside from the burning pain at its neck and feet; they seared, they burnt, and it never ended. It was a constant agony. The hound paced to and fro fitfully, in the beginning, it had screamed and howled and wailed at the greenish flames. Now, it had grown somehow numb, still feeling the flames, but its brain rewired itself to tolerate them after so long. That didn't take away the sense in its mind that they were excruciating.

It was not the only hound to be plagued so, it dwelled in an entire pack of those like it. Other hounds, just as tortured by their infected bodies as it was, and just as angered by intruders upon their territory. The hound fought tooth and nail every strange aggressor it happened on, poisoning them with its sickness, pleased that its biggest thorn in its sided could be used for its own benefit. The giant carrion-eaters, thick, yellowy worms, it could do nothing about them. They would remain. They could be ignored.

A new scent on the wind made its hackles rise, and while its head pulsed with a frenzied migraine which did not leave, it followed the rest of its kind—it used to be a simple darkhound, they all had, before this vileness permeated their beings—to the area of interest. There between the trees trod something tall and two-legged, the hound did not recognize what it was. It hardly mattered, it wasn't supposed to come near.

The hound, snarling and drooling, leapt forward and bit into a forelimb with all of its might, and was dismayed to find itself quite easily shaken off. The foreign entity was massive and coarsely pelted. Through the haze of madness in its vision the hound could see cranial horns pointed downward. A broad bovine snout showed a curling lip.

It held a stick-like object, and swung it repeatedly at the hound and its brethren. It narrowly missed the hound's ears. Suddenly enraged, the hound tore at a piece of hanging flesh, only to find it come off like a loose piece of shed fur.

Bewildered, the hound spat the flesh—fur?—onto the ground, the others were doing their jobs attacking the intruder, and the hound, set to rejoin them, barked in outrage again—

When one of the hounds fell at the newcomer's feet. It had been a sharp and swift movement, sickening, stinking green blood poured out of a wound inflicted on the fallen hound's throat. The runes carved into its sides by supernatural forces dimmed.

The hound experienced a spark of fear, a fear for its life or what remained of it, for the first time since it had learned to go on with its disease.


	3. Expectations

Gazelle came in a variety of pelts. Some were a bright gold, some were striped, and others were dark brown. Hebellina had come to learn many things about them, through studying several small herds she had spotted during her travels across the savannah with her brother Paddarick. Her companion animal was an unnamed hyena, which she'd expected to behave as a dog would, but it had surprised her by being nothing like a canine at all. She wasn't even sure of its gender.

Life had certainly taken an unexpected turn for her brother and herself. Darnassus was a breath of fresh air for them both, the elves were much more accepting of their curse than their own kinsmen were. She felt guilty for being relieved. It was the opinion of the Gilnean public Hebellina Tebbin wanted to know, wanted to purify in regards to her. Paddarick was far more collected than she was in, well, everything. It was almost as if he had expected all this. He'd been the wiser one since childhood, and she the loudmouthed troublemaker with no sense of respect.

They'd been liked, had lives, friends. Now all ties had been cut overnight. The pain of the blow was disorienting but with time it was lessening. Scabbing over. Not exactly healing. Losing your homeland never quite healed, but it was possible to move on from it. She did indeed feel a great bitterness and longing for Gilneas, as all her people did. One would think such a life changing experience would have humbled her, but she had never been the brightest, ruled by her emotions and never thinking before speaking. She was the same person as ever. If only the others could have seen that.

It was less of a problem now, out in the Southern Barrens. There were other worgen, working in camps and making use of themselves despite their affliction. She and Paddarick aspired to do the same, performing random tasks for the soldiers and cooks, and perhaps after a time they would return to Darnassus…but what would be the point? The majority of their people were spread across Alliance land, probably shaken by the culture shock as thoroughly as Hebellina had been at first.

Her hyena made a noise, and she took a deep breath. This one was finding it difficult to get along with Ranaldo, which she initially thought was an issue of male dominance but she was no longer sure of the reason. Ranaldo himself was on the other side of her, soundless. He was starting to get on in years, and needed the rest stop. She had given it to him, instead of pushing him in her impatience as she might have before. Before she'd changed. She felt a crush of guilt over her treatment of him in the past. How hardy a mastiff Ranaldo was, to tolerate her and live up to her unrealistically high expectations so well.

How pathetic she was, that she couldn't even live up to her own.


	4. A Moment

The trees were crooked and dark, the snow stark white. I observed the contrast. The further away the trees became, they more gray they were, until they disappeared wholly into the white. I couldn't remember how I'd ended up here. It didn't matter, for a briefest moment, all I cared about was staring into the alabaster abyss. The cold gnawed at me, even in my thick tauren coat of brown and white. My amber eyes blinked fallen snow from my eyelids. As I slowly awakened, I began to recall what happened the night previous.

Not much.

I traveled, as I ever have for the past five years. I used to have my cousin with me, but we parted ways. Since going through Winterspring, I found some vendors selling frostsaber cubs. Normally this would not mean much to me, but...I'd grown tired of being alone. The small felines was adorable and a striking lavender purple, with paler striping. It was practically love at first sight. I was still a girl calf at heart where small, cute animals were concerned. I bought it. I knew that a frostsaber was a typically Alliance creature to own, but I didn't care—I've seen too much to be drawn into the bad blood between the factions.

The goblins eyed me strangely, but a profit was a profit, and they couldn't say anything. Everlook was a neutral region, I could purchase whatever I pleased from whomever I pleased. I named the cub Sigalit. She would serve me well as a riding mount once she's grown, although I hadn't the faintest idea how to properly go about training a future riding mount beast. I could learn if I simply asked around in the right areas. I had slept here overnight, Sigalit curled comfortably in my lap. Her little chest rose and fell with each breath she took.

I was relieved she hadn't frozen in the night, her faulty caging had fallen apart while I walked. She had been crying and squeaked when she hit the snowy forest floor, to my surprise. Those damnable, cheap goblins...I had been hoping to fill her cage with cloth so she would stay warm, but it was useless now. She was a clever cat, rushing to me for warmth immediately, instead of cowering in fear as I'd known plains cats to do. I could see the resemblance between her kind and theirs...but it was only physical. Frostsabers are renowned for their loyalty and minds.

How do I know so much about an Alliance creature? Hmph. I was a druid. I could transform into a large feline myself. I had grown attached to them, studied them in books no matter their affiliation. Once, a book was torn from my hands, and I'd been called treasonous. It was a public library, I didn't see the problem. I was kicked out anyhow. Prejudice knew no bounds, and I desired no part of it. Sigalit stirred and made an odd trilling sound in her throat. I suppose she was hungry. Good thing, I'd hunted a sizable buck days before I'd bought her, and still had some meat leftover.

She was old enough to eat solid foods. They wouldn't have sold her to me if she wasn't...or, I hoped they wouldn't. She pressed her face into my stomach as I rustled around in my bags for her food, purring faintly. I found it amazing that a big cat such as this could purr, but it was possible she'd lose the ability as she grew older. That was in the future, and I was focused on the present. I used to think too much on the past and what was to come, never living for what was happening then. I'd changed much since I'd last seen my cousin. I'd learned to love life.

I find the food and Sigalit's eyes brighten at the scent. Something about the light and innocence about her brought an unexpected sense of joy in my chest. _I think I've found another thing to love,_ I thought.


	5. Homecoming

The kodo were an ancient species. Old enough to be claimed by the tauren as riding mounts, to have adapted over time so that instead of simply one sort of kodo, there were two domestic and wild kinds, separate. The domestic were smaller and calmer than their untamed brethren, almost like cattle, less easy to spook than horses.

Not that any tauren rode horses. Equines were a mark of the Alliance, mainly the human part of it. Kodo were recognizably Horde. They grazed and slept and watched over their young until they were needed for a journey. Kodo were shared by the community. Instead of being restricted by whether or not one owned a kodo, a tauren merely had to ask permission from the local riding master.

Although, it was common logic that a tauren ought not to walk up into a foreign encampment and take advantage of the hospitality of the inhabitants. That would be rude. It was the only thing which stopped Soffrekyar from obtaining a mount. She wouldn't be able to return it, anyhow. She was back home in Mulgore, where, in her opinion, she belonged. She couldn't wait to see her cousin Garego again. They'd agreed to meet up on this date.

Would she be surprised to see the young purple frostsaber by her side? She hoped he would. The look on his face would be priceless. Also, she hoped none would recognize Sigalit as a creature the night elves held an affinity for, else there might be trouble. Time would tell how that went. Sigalit herself had grown wonderfully, Soffrekyar had done her best to keep her well-fed and fit, alert and smart. She thought she'd done a fairly good job of that.

She hadn't appreciated Mulgore enough when she lived here in stasis. The grassland was green and yellow and home-y. What a beautiful place. She could not see Thunder Bluff, yet, but it was only a matter of time before it came into view. Would anyone recognize her? Would anyone care? She stopped at that thought—when had she become so pessimistic? Of course _someone_would.

She was not going to stay here. She was not old and wizened, what harm was there in visiting after roughly six years of no contact? Well, no contact aside from Garego, who had traveled with her until three years in, where they had split up, and gone their own individual ways. It had been a careful decision, but they had gained experience, and had the stability of mind to know they could make it on their own, without a relative beside them as comfort.

How many times had she needed comfort?

She swallowed a knot in her throat.

Home, here she was.


	6. Getting Personal

Watching two giraffes fight it out was interesting.

They slammed against one another with their necks, the force great enough to rock their bodies, and I wondered how they didn't dislocate their spines or something to that effect in the process. That was probably what they were trying to do to their opponent. By the larger sizes and horns of the two before me I figured they were two males battling for breeding rights in the area.

Flies buzzed around my face and the air was humid. I hid underneath a shrub, the branches so interwoven with one another I could have sworn they had been made so by careful hands. I had a feeling however that not many traveled out as far as I had. I was out in the middle of nowhere. More accurately, the Barrens. I'd slept here for the night. I was awakened by the noise of angry herbivores. My hands, callused and browned by the daylight, clutched a rifle. What was the purpose of my being out here? I was a wanderer. No face, no name.

No one would miss me if I died. My mother and father were bandits, prowling forests and taking advantage of random passersby unlucky enough to come by them. The lifestyle had cost them dearly, I lost them both when they picked the wrong traveler to prey on, at the age of eleven or ten, or so, I couldn't quite recall any longer.

The Elwynn forests may seem safe and idyllic at a glance, but that was precisely what made them so dangerous for the naïve; the closeness to Stormwind and the warmness of the citizens let peoples' guards down, perfect for a roving thief or mugger. Trust me, I knew these things. I'd survived by tooth and nail. Nobody took pity on me because I was an orphan. Perhaps if I'd tried repenting for my parents' sins…but that was ridiculous. It wasn't my fault what family I'd been born into.

Sometimes life was not fair. But the older I became the kinder I grew. I was not my father, unreliable and sadistic. I was not my mother, flighty and cunning. I did not go out of my way to cause others harm they did not deserve. I understood what it meant to be alone and to suffer. I did not wish it on anyone else. I suppose that was why I came here to the Barrens. I had little sympathy for the looters I found here...especially the ones in Taurajo.

People are not perfect, but they can be heroes. I could never dream of having the discipline of a soldier, and it was a little late anyhow to be dreaming of such things. I was twenty-eight. The skirmishes which happened here between the Alliance and Horde could very well kill me, but on the other hand they could very well be the ticket to my inner peace.

Someone anywhere always needs something done, and I'd always refused to be anyone's errand boy before. I felt differently these days. I needed a purpose. I wanted to redeem the time I'd wasted wandering about doing nothing but dwelling on the past. Through the gaps between the leaves I could still see the giraffes hitting each other. When they were done, I would leave, and embark on a...quest, yes, that was the word. A quest, of a personal nature.


	7. Hebellina Tebbin

**HEBELLINA TEBBIN** is a Gilnean worgen woman, and younger sister of **PADDARICK TEBBIN**. The siblings grew up together on a farmstead in Tempest's Reach. As a child she had a reputation for speaking without thinking, disrespecting elders and generally being a whirlwind of emotion and trouble. As an adolescent she matured somewhat, but still kept her unruly streak. She had no time for boys, fretting not over them like other girls her age, instead spending time with her mastiff **RANALDO** and feeling the call of the forests in her blood, a sign of a dawning huntress.

She'd always had an affinity for animals, trying many times when younger to convince her mother and father that she was responsible enough to own a snake. She named it Bitey. It was a mere little garden serpent, but her parents refused flatly every time. She was not a mature girl. She needed help simply remembering to feed Ranaldo as a puppy. How could she ever own a reptile? Everything snapped into place when she was fourteen or so, however. She still had her character, but the lack of discipline was slowly fading out. She was starting on her way to becoming an adult.

At nineteen she was doing well studying as a huntress, she even caught the attention of Huntsman Blake, the man who took it upon himself to train all aspiring hunters and huntresses in Gilneas. He knew nothing of her wild and embarrassing past as a youngster, which she took relief in. No one in her age group ever let her live it down, the stupid things she'd said and done. She found comfort in professional atmospheres. Was she a bit insecure? Probably. She was a teenager, after all.

Ranaldo stuck with her through and through, ever loyal, and she was incredibly grateful for his company. Her brother wasn't absent, either, but he had his own life and his own business to attend to, and she tried to speak with him when she could, but opportunities grew increasingly fewer. Everything crashed to a halt when the combined shocks of the worgen curse and the Forsaken invasion hit them all. Hebellina was at a loss, she was one of many in a horrible time, and she decided to lie low and hide somewhere safe with her brother. It did not work out...

Where she wanted to hide, Paddarick wanted to help others find safety. She was terrified that she'd lose him, but she knew she couldn't stop him. She expected him to smack her away when she grabbed his arm tearfully, but he only sighed. "Heb'," he said firmly, "Yeh have got to let me go." She did. It hurt her, but she did. The time he was gone from her was the longest hour of her life. She contemplated many things then—did she even really know her brother? Did he really know her? Did he see her as a fool like the rest?

He finally returned, but not alone. He hadn't noticed them, prowling in the shadows, but they struck nonetheless. The worgen. They got to the both of them in their bunker, but were driven out by shotgun blasts. Another farmer had shot at them, missing Hebellina by about an inch. They were bitten. They were infected with the curse. This did not occur to any of them at the time, they were hurt, and surging with aftershocks of terror. Things after that were like a hurricane. Turning for the first time, being captured, having her humanity tested to its limits.

When the elvish ships came it was an intense event. Darnassus was foreign and exotic, and for a time the pair stayed there. Not for long; tensions between Gilneans and the new, 'tamed,' worgen were high. It wasn't long until Hebellina and Paddarick felt the urge to leave. Never before had they experienced a need to see the world, but that was what overcame them. They did not argue with it.


	8. Through the Marsh

Hebellina didn't have an excuse for the state she was in; she was a torn, muddy mess, she thought it would be downright stupid to pretend she wasn't. The marsh called Dustwallow had proven itself to be a difficult area to travel through, perilous, odious and in a way the atmosphere almost felt merciless, she supposed that part was in her mind, but it didn't take away the sensation of being watched from every corner.

She took a deep breath to gather herself and immediately regretted it. The air was sour. She was in worgen form, as going about on all fours was faster. She should have bought a mount when she could have, she frowned. She didn't have the currency to buy a new one. Beside her Ranaldo and the still nameless hyena trailed her steps, glancing up at her in confusion now and again, as if to ask, where did she think she was going?

She didn't know, damn it. She was on the path, always the wisest route, that didn't mean she liked where she seemed to be heading. Deeper it went into the marshland, where she personally didn't want to go, but knew she must. So, onward the three of them trekked. She'd heard there was a place famous for its association with the Alliance archmage Whatserface Proudmoore around here somewhere.

She was determined to find it, even with her discouraged thoughts. Hopefully the residents there wouldn't be frightened or hateful—or both—of her appearance, worgen were fairly common knowledge these days, but she had to take it into consideration. She lost count of the times she'd been turned away from someplace because of what she was, in the beginning. Lately she'd been encountering more and more of her kind on a normal basis throughout her travels. Maybe that was a good sign.


End file.
